The clock in Mara’s apartment ticked louder than it should have. Midnight had long passed, yet neither of them made a move to leave. The storm outside rattled the windowpanes, and the air inside was warm, close, thick with words they hadn’t said.
Mara sat on the edge of the couch, a loose sweater slipping from one shoulder. Her hair fell in damp waves from the rain. When she looked up at Alex, her eyes lingered a little too long. Then her tongue brushed slowly across her lower lip — nervous at first, then slower, like she was buying herself time.
Alex saw it. He always noticed the small things about her. The way she hesitated before speaking, how she rolled her tongue against the inside of her cheek when she was trying not to smile. She didn’t realize that these tiny movements gave her away more than any confession ever could.
“You’re quiet tonight,” he said.
She shrugged, but her tongue flicked out again, tracing the rim of her mouth before she caught herself. “Just thinking,” she murmured. Her voice sounded softer, almost hoarse.
He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “About what?”
Her gaze dropped to the glass in her hand. A bead of condensation ran down to her thumb. “About how close things get before they change,” she said.
The lamp light caught the curve of her face, the way her lips parted when she breathed. Her tongue darted out again, wetting the edge of a word that never came. She bit it gently, as though holding something back.
Alex shifted closer. The air seemed to bend around them. He could hear the faint sound of her breath and the rustle of fabric when she crossed her legs.
“You do that when you’re nervous,” he said quietly.
She blinked. “Do what?”
“Your tongue,” he said. “You bite your lip when you’re trying not to say something.”
Mara froze, then exhaled through her nose, smiling just a little. “You notice too much.”
“Maybe,” he said. “Or maybe you show too much.”
Her eyes met his — steady now, searching, not afraid. The silence stretched. Then she spoke again, barely above a whisper. “Maybe both.”
She set the glass down, and her fingers trembled slightly against the table. The faintest tremor, almost invisible, but he caught it. When she turned back, her tongue pressed against her upper lip, a small, deliberate motion. It wasn’t hesitation anymore; it was invitation.
The moment passed like the flicker of the candle behind them — quick, fragile, electric. Neither of them reached for more. They didn’t have to. The language between them had already shifted.
Later, when he finally stood to leave, she walked him to the door. The night air slipped in, cool against their skin. She smiled — slow, secret, unfinished. Her tongue touched the corner of her mouth again before she said goodnight.
It wasn’t a kiss. But it was close enough to promise one.